Dreaming of Venice
by JantoJones
Summary: Napoleon is trying to keep an injured Illya from going to sleep.


"Venice."

Illya painfully lifted his head from where it was resting on his chest. The mere effort of it caused an agonising reverberation around his skull.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I said Venice," Napoleon replied.

He was well aware that the tone of his voice was far too bright and breezy, but he didn't want Illya to know just how bad the situation was. Though, even in a befuddled state, Kuryakin wasn't a stupid man. He probably knew, somewhere in his subconscious, that they were unlikely to survive the next hour or so. Solo also wanted to keep his partner awake. The Russian had been beaten badly before the pair of them had been locked in this underground cell to await execution. Napoleon had lost count of the number of times Illya's smart mouth had gotten him hurt, and was dearly wishing he would get the chance to berate him for it, yet again.

"Are you going to explain why?" Kuryakin asked, trying to focus on one of the three versions of his partner. "Or are you going to let me go to sleep?"

"You can't sleep yet!" Napoleon exclaimed a little too strongly. He calmed his voice back down. "And yes, I am going to explain. I was just trying to decide where to take my next vacation, and finally decided on Venice."

"Why Venice in particular?"

The way Illya's words were slurring was fast becoming a great concern to the senior agent. He had checked the smaller man over and, although nothing seemed to be broken, there was a lot of bruising all over his torso and face. Not that it would matter soon, as they would both be dead. He had sent a distress signal but was certain help would not arrive on time.

Napoleon had initially wondered why the Thrushie, Sid Flynn, was waiting before disposing of them. He could have easily killed them at any time, but then he had realised that the man was inflicted with a common THRUSH trait. He obviously had a flair for the dramatic and was waiting until dawn. At least that bought any would-be rescuers a little time.

"I like Venice," he replied. "There's nothing more civilised than floating along in a gondola, with a glass of wine and the company of a beautiful signorina."

"It wasn't . . . so civilised . . . last time,"

Illya was really starting to struggle now. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep, but Napoleon wasn't letting him. Deep down, he realised he was hurt, and that Solo was simply trying to help him, but, he was tired, and he was in pain.

"We were on assignment," Napoleon reminded him. "I'm hardly likely to jump out of a gondola and get sick on vacation. I'll be relaxing"

Illya snorted a laugh, which he immediately regretted when his bruised body protested.

"Remember Rome?" the Russian said, his voice growing weaker. "We ended up . . . in Terbuf."

Napoleon had to concede the point and was about to say as much when he realised Illya had lost consciousness. He tapped the blond on the cheek and tried to rouse him, but was unsuccessful. With nothing else to do, Solo leaned against the wall and waited for destiny.

It was less than an hour before the door to the cell opened and two heavily armed men entered. They ordered the agents to their feet.

"He's unconscious," Napoleon protested, indicating the slumped Russian.

"You'll have to carry him then," one of the grunts told him.

Illya only began to emerge into consciousness as he was being tied to a stake. He groggily looked around him, trying to comprehend what was happening. Even in his shaky state, he could see what was about to occur.

"Farewell, my friend," he mumbled, before once again succumbing to oblivion.

Napoleon frowned at the words and looked skyward for some divine intervention. His attention was grabbed by a figure and he thanked God for such a prompt response to his prayer.

"Do you have any final words, Solo?" Flynn asked, as he chewed on the end of a cigar. "I have to say, I'm really looking forward to the rewards I'll be given for this day's work."

"O, what a beautiful morning."

"What?!"

"I was just commenting on this beautiful morning," Solo reiterated. "The sun is shining, it's warm, and the breeze is gentle."

"What are you babbling . . ."

Flynn dropped to the ground, with a sleep dart embedded in his neck. He was quickly joined by his guards. Napoleon grinned as he watched Mark and April drop into the compound.

"Hello, darling," April greeted him as she began to untie him. "Sorry we're late."

"You're not late yet," he replied, shaking the rope loose and turning to help Mark with Illya. "How is he?"

"Don't know, mate," Slate replied. "He's breathing so that must be a good sign. We'd better get him to a hospital."

"I think there's one about two miles away," April supplied. "We probably shouldn't risk the time it will take to New York."

Two hours later, three agents sat at the beside of the fourth. The doctors had diagnosed a probable concussion, but had given a good prognosis. They sat in a companionable silence while they waited for Illya to return to the living.

"Venice," came a quiet voice from the bed.

"What did you say, darling?" April asked, afraid that he may have suffered some permanent damage.

"He said 'Venice'," Mark repeated, equally as puzzled.

"I would also like to go to Venice," Illya continued, as he drifted back to sleep.

Slate and Dancer looked to Solo with concern, only to see him smiling.

"Don't worry," he told them. "We were planning a vacation."


End file.
